


The Less Time that You Spend with Me, the Less You Need to Heal

by empathy_junkie



Series: Pedestrian Purgatory [2]
Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Trans Character, Uncomfortable Stuff, sad stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 08:23:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19269418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empathy_junkie/pseuds/empathy_junkie
Summary: au; mido and shimura are among the survivors of the Yotsuba kira and are both very depressed and shouldn't drink, really





	The Less Time that You Spend with Me, the Less You Need to Heal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jockohomo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jockohomo/gifts).



She should have told him to slow down.

If there was one area in which she could provide solid advice, it was the area of alcohol consumption. True, she hadn't binged since her late twenties, but she could vividly remember the moment in which the wall of confusion and numbness would hit, suddenly robbing her of her ability to make any useful decision. And Shimura was very near to hitting that wall.

"Christ, Suguru," she said, her own lips laden with the poison that had him staring off into space. "I'm cutting you off."

He had hardly noticed her. She wasn't bothered in the slightest.

Suguru was on the couch, but he hadn't yet allowed himself to take up more than half of it. Instead he sat, leaning forward, barely able to keep the tumbler in his hand upright as he took in each swirling, crashing moment. Ayame had taken the recliner out of habit when she had switched on the television.

"Let's get your jacket off, huh?" she mumbled, amused. It would have been suitable for her to be amused in any other situation, but not this one. In this situation it was almost a sin.

"Ayame," Suguru smiled up at her as if he were seeing her for the first time in years. "You're too good to me."

The television wasn't quite loud enough to drown out her resulting thoughts of shame and bewilderment.

"Shut up, Suguru," she said, tossing her head back, smiling wryly. "You're drunk."

A look of muddled resignation crossed his face immediately. He hardly even let her last syllable fall.

"I know," he assured her. "I … I know."

Ayame swallowed a laugh. The poor man looked absolutely crestfallen, sitting there poised tellingly forward, his hair slick and his face burning. It was all very nearly hilarious.

"You should also know better than to try and keep up with me, then," she retorted lazily.

He gave her a look.

Oops. If he were sober, she wouldn't have gotten away with a joke like that.

But he wasn't. And neither was she.

With a heaving sigh, Ayame hoisted her body upright. Having navigated her own body in its current, shifty state so many times, it was no trouble for her to slide easily onto the couch next to Suguru without missing a step. She let herself lean against him, afterward, perhaps for a moment too long. And then, "Right," she had removed the glass from his hand and came back to his side to start removing his jacket.

It smelled faintly of sweat. And it wasn't even tailored. Tsk, tsk. How did he live. 

If Ayame's father thought his son was walking around in suits that didn't fit him perfectly, he'd sigh. He'd make a solemn comment. He'd put an end to it.

But Suguru was pliant. He stretched his arms backward, forcing the rest of him to bend low, in order to accommodate the gentle, tugging movements of Ayame's fingers. Soon, the jacket was off, ill-fitting or not.

She grabbed his arm, "Done," and realized how firm the muscles were beneath the thin shirt he was wearing. His arms were strong. His body was strong. She let go of the jacket, unaware that it fell to the floor.

Suguru made a face, suddenly, with a sigh.

"Ayame … I know it's an imposition … I'm really sorry, but … I might need to sleep here tonight."

She put a hand impulsively on his thigh to steady herself as she swung her legs beneath her on the couch. She chuckled. "You might?"

"I'm sorry," he continued, slurring. The light from the television swam in his dizzy eyes; danced off of his moist lips. "I don't know if Haru is home. I should give Eiichi a call …"

"I'll call him," Ayame interrupted. "Then it'll make sense."

Suguru laughed.

"I'm so sorry. I'm really drunk. You're so kind to me … not to be angry. Not to mind, so much. I don't mean to do it … but it keeps happening … I'm so sorry, Ayame."

She hadn't moved her hand from his thigh. She touched his arm again, with her free hand. He was very warm. She was very lonely. She hadn't heard him laugh in what felt like centuries.

"It's ok. Moron. I'm not going to send you home."

He looked at her. "You're so good. You're so good, Ayame."

"I thought I told you to shut up."

Without warning, his head fell against her shoulder.

"I won't. You need to hear it, because it's true. You're so good to me and it hurts me that there's nobody else here to say it. You deserve more than just me. Someday you'll find someone, Ayame. I know you will. Someone will see you, and be able to love you the way you deserve. I know I can't be enough. But I love you, Ayame. I love you. You're so good. You're so good."

"You don't know the half of it."

She had fallen from the couch. Suguru looked for her briefly before finding her eyes again. He rested his hands on her shoulders, his speech continuing to drone into the air which had become charged with a devastating electricity.

"I know you! I know you, Ayame. And that's why I love you so much."

"I love you, too," she whispered, taking the fly of his trousers in her hands. And it was true. And it gave her an ache. And he gave her an ache.

She had been on her knees for many men, but not one of them had called her by her name.


End file.
